The Politician, Lighthouse, and Trained Cormorant
by Protector of the Gray Fortress
Summary: Holmes and Watson pursue a dangerous criminal to an abandoned lighthouse by the sea. Climax from one of the unrecorded cases, so cruelly hinted at by the good Doctor.


**_This was written with KCS's enthusiastic prompting to "unleash my dark side", there is a reason why I usually don't write freaky stories and this is it, I doubt whether I shall get any sleep tonight. _**

**_Be warned (if you aren't already) this story is spooky and contains not only fluffy-angst but also Doctor whomping. _**

**_I thought it was Holmes' turn to be whomped but KCS and the plotbunnies thought otherwise. _**

**_Hope you enjoy it, and please forgive the unusual length._**

* * *

Dedicated to KCS, for her unwavering confidence in my own poor abilities and for reminding me of the Politician and the Comrorant.

* * *

"Holmes," I caught hold of his arm as he removed the lockpicks from his pocket. "This is not at all a good idea."

My friend regarded me. "Why not, Watson?"

"Why not?! How could it be, is more like it. Holmes, we know nothing about the place…he could be anywhere…"

"Its' not that large, Watson." Said my friend complacently, fingering through the keys to find the right one. He was entirely too eager, one would think we were schoolboys about to break into the local haunt.

"Holmes…its been condemned for years."

He shot me a look, "Five years, Watson, and that was only because of the poor foundation…hardly enough time to acquire the usual accompaniment of spooks I assure you."

Looking up at the tall tower of the ancient lighthouse I could see why one might think it to be haunted, but that was hardly the point.

"We should wait for Inspector Netley."

Holmes snorted at the mention of the young, country inspector, almost the sole representation of the law in this cold, forgotten corner of Britain.

"Do you really think he would have the wits or, as our colonial cousins put it, the guts to come up here at this time of night?"

"No, which is very wise on his part, Holmes, we are going after a madman!"

"Precisely." My friend said, inserting the lock into the door. "Pray, lower your voice my dear fellow. If he was in full possession of all his faculties then I should be worried. But as it is he has been up here for nearly two days without food or water…I rather suspect we will find he has little resistance left."

"It is still dangerous."

Holmes sighed, left the lockpick in the keyhole and turned to me.

"Watson…In any other circumstance I would agree with you, but he is the only one who knows the location of Mr. Green, and if we are to have any chance of extracting that information from him we must get to him before he dies of starvation or exposure, and just because the local police force has a fear of spirits does not mean that I am going to stand by. You can go back to the cart if it suits you."

The gentleman named Green was in fact the accomplice of the man we were now after, having vanished nearly three days ago with most of the stolen property including that of our client. His partner, a very sly but delusional gentleman by the name of Howell had retreated to the headland and the wreck of a lighthouse that stood now before us. It had been abandoned in favor of a newer, better placed structure nearly a mile west of us. It was not until this evening that someone had spotted the lights in the windows of the abandoned building, declaring it to be a spirit.

The structure itself was enormous and though it was leaning to the side due to its foundations it was straight enough, with three floors and a tower nearly twenty feet tall at its south end facing the headland. The glass windows on top were dark and fogged and unkempt…I could almost imagine some spectral face peering out…

"Watson." Holmes' voice jarred me back to reality and I jumped a little as his hand came down on my shoulder.

His eyes were sharp with sudden concern.

"If you really would rather not come my dear fellow…"

"No." I said at once, raising the dark lantern once again where I had let it sag in my contemplation of the building. "This is foolhardy but I'm not about to let you do it on your own, I just wish you could have chosen a more amiable hour of the day to do it."

It was nearly a quarter past ten, and a thick bank of heavy clouds covered any light from the moon or stars. Combined with the waves crashing on the black ring of rocks not thirty yards away, and the chill wind that had picked up and carried the spray all the way inland, the whole atmosphere was devilish.

Holmes, totally unaffected, laughed. "Is your romantic imagination running away with you already Watson? You know that the locals talk of an impaled Spanish sailor from the days of the armada, wandering the shore, and a maiden in white who haunts the upper windows watching for her father to return on his ship…"

"Holmes!"

He chuckled, "Oh come along my dear fellow. You've been listening to Lachlan too much."

I shivered, "That's not the point."

He grinned but left off his teasing, turning his attention again to the door. I directed the light of the small lantern to aid him.

It was a moment's work of his quick deft hands, and then with a sharp click the door swung inward without any prompting from us, moaning like the dead as it did so.

Holmes lit his own lantern and lifted it, peering into the dusty depths of a shadowy front hall. He grinned at me.

"Shall we, Watson?"

I shuddered again and muttered. "If I was a ghost this is certainly where I would choose to haunt."

I will freely admit in the pages of my private journal that I was quite unnerved already, my imagination was indeed running away with me, every shadow and every reflection of light from our lanterns seemed to be a fleeting figure. Nevertheless my rational mind was still in control, so I stepped through the doorway first.

Holmes laughed evilly behind me but stopped with a plaintive "Ow!" when I kicked him in the leg.

Thankfully his attention was soon engaged by our rather intriguing surroundings and he lost no time inspecting the short narrow hall, even flinging himself down upon the uneven, weathered floorboards.

"Hah!" the exultant cry left his mouth in an instant and he looked up at me with eyes that shone with that particular fever of energy that comes when he is engaged upon such a case.

"He is here alright, Watson. Or at least he has been through here…there are clear footprints in this dust."

My friend sprang to his feet again and I saw by his coat front that the floor was indeed thick with it.

"Well then it shouldn't be too hard to find him."

Holmes bit his lip.

"That depends on how much he has moved around. I should not like to follow an obvious trail through and around the house with him at our backs…but it will do to start at least. Come on."

He shone his lantern before us, the weak light only adding to the grim atmosphere of the place, though it did illuminate the footsteps he had mentioned. They were unevenly spaced, and several dark splotches matched them every few feet.

"You see there, Watson." Holmes whispered with a grin. "You did manage to wing him the other night."

I nodded, somewhat gratified by this, it had been a very tricky shot.

"He is wounded then." I said with some relief, "Still alive I should think…the blood loss isn't substantial."

"Did you bring your medical kit?" Holmes asked, still in a hushed voice, following the footprints down the squat entryway and into a sitting room with large, shuttered windows.

"No, I didn't." I said. "I prefer to have my hands free."

"Hmm. He'll have to with whatever bandaging we can improvise then."

The sitting room was weirdly distorted from the dim light outside and even before the light from Holmes' lantern passed over the abandoned furniture and the cold grating of the fireplace I shivered. There is something haunting about silent places where people once lived that makes them unnerving even if one does not believe in ghosts. Indeed I believe it is this morbid fascination that causes men to become archaeologists and anthropologists, obsessed with visiting the living and resting places of the dead.

It offered very little interest to Holmes however, and like a single minded hound he followed the footsteps away from the hall into the room straight to the windows.

He straightened from his half crouch and examined them for some moments.

"What is it Holmes?" I asked, casting my light on him.

He frowned and spoke, half to himself. "They're unfastened."

"What?" I edged into the room to stand closer to him, casting wary glances at the receding gloom behind me.

"The shutters are unfastened." He said again. He pushed on one lightly through the broken glass and I was surprised to see it shudder outward.

"Why should they be unfastened?" I asked.

"I don't know." Holmes was examining the window frames themselves now. "These are unfastened as well…and they've been open recently, you see the mess the salt spray from the sea has made on the floor."

I looked down and saw that there was indeed a damp residue among the gathered dust.

"Howell?" I asked.

"Who else." Holmes turned from the windows to face the rest of the sitting room, glancing at the furniture surreptitiously before stepping quiet and catlike back towards the hall.

Holmes led the way down the narrower hallway, glancing only vaguely over the closed doors on either side as we made our way towards the back of the house.

"His footprints have become muddled." Said the detective, "He's been through here numerous times crossing over his own path…"

"But why should he go to the widows?" I asked, "Especially the ones facing the sea? Its' been storming for days."

"I have the suspicion that…ah." Holmes stopped, with a sharp intake of breath and raised his head, as though scenting the air.

"Holmes?"

"Do you smell that, Watson?"

I sniffed and immediately regretted it as a subtle but wholly unpleasant smell assailed my nostrils.

"By the lord Harry!"

"Do keep your voice down Watson." Holmes said with some amusement.

I put my hand to my nose, the odor was atrocious, stank and foul…almost sour…like…like something rotting.

"Come on." Holmes took hold of my arm to lead me forward towards the smell further into the back of the house to the end of the hall.

To our left was an door without handles and a set of double hinges that would have allowed it to swing both ways had it not been sagging in its frame.

As it was it had been shoved inward to rest precariously against the entry, like some looming sentry with peeling paint.

Holmes stepped under it and I followed into a room that I knew at once to be a kitchen, not only from its stone floors but from the large rough table in the middle and the cold, potbelly stove that stood against one wall.

These observations were brushed from my mind at once by the smell, now thick and so strong it practically made my eyes water.

It was a smell that any would find hard to describe for few people can really claim to have smelt it. I recognized it from my time in Afghanistan, thick and clotting, the smell of decaying flesh left to the elements, the smell of death.

This smell was somewhat different, it was not human, but again had that strange sour quality that almost left a taste on one's mouth.

I gagged and raised my sleeve up to my face in an attempt to block it out. Holmes grimaced and swallowed.

"What is it?" I gasped.

He didn't answer, but turned, casting his light about at the dark corners and smaller shuttered windows, these ones facing inland.

At last the light stopped on one of the wooden counters that lined the walls, reflecting off a pile of glistening scales and other unpleasant things such as entrails.

"I think this answers our questions about the window, Watson." Holmes gasped, following my example and raising his coat to shield his nose.

"Fish?" I said, trying to see clearly with streaming eyes.

Holmes nodded, and as I stepped closer (as close as I could stand) I saw quite clearly the pile of guts and lifeless fins and cold white eyes shining out of the scaly heads.

I gagged further, seeing that already they were covered in a supply of wriggling white maggots and black buzzing flies.

Holmes examined them as closely as he could and then, when he began to reflexively heave behind his arm he motioned me back and out of the room, both of us beating a hasty retreat.

I stopped in the hall, breathing deeply of the stale, dusty air that was nonetheless free of the stink of rotting fish. Holmes leaned against the wall next to me, bent over slightly.

When I had got my breath back I gasped.

"What did that have to do with the windows?"

Holmes cleared his throat several times, then in a voice somewhat less steady than usual he spoke.

"Don't you remember ,Watson? Howell's bird."

With a flash of understanding the thing was suddenly made clear in my mind. The same sea bird that Green had used to help him steal valuables from the houses was also trained to take fish from the sea.

"Of course! The cormorant! He's been opening the front windows to let it out!"

Holmes nodded. "I'm afraid I miscalculated when I said he was without food, those fish were expertly carved up…he's been eating rather well."

"If raw fish can be considered good eating."

Holmes smiled. "I have heard that it is considered tasteful to some cultures in the east, though I have never been desperate enough to try it myself."

Holmes took a moment or two more to compose himself then lifted his lantern again. "Well he's not on the first floor, Watson. Shall we proceed to the second?"

If I had my way we would both be as far from the cursed place as was possible, but the glint in my friend's eyes told me he had no intention of giving up just yet.

"Very well." I said, "I shall watch our backs…you look where we're stepping." I fingered the comforting weight of my revolver as I had done on other, similar occasions.

He smiled, "I know my Watson, follow me old fellow."

We made our way through the disturbing atmosphere down a second hall that passed another set of closed and probably locked doors to a set of staircases.

The left it was evident, led to the abandoned tower and the right to the other floors.

Holmes took one look at the left and much to my relief made his way to the right.

The steps, thankfully did not creak, for they, like the other levels of the house were newer than the foundations, we went someway out them without incident , keeping our lights trained on our feet so as to see where we were going.

When, quite suddenly, I felt a soft waft of air by my right ear.

Thoughts of cold, clutching fingers and stale whispering breaths made my hair stand on end and I whirled where I stood, shining my light behind me.

Something, smooth and stiff, like satin, struck me full in the face and there was an explosion of disturbed air and dust.

I bit back a cry of alarm, too startled to do anything but grope for the railing as I stumbled backward and lost my footing.

I fell sideways into the railing and slid further down the worn steps while the thing, whatever it was, scrambled about in my face.

At last I came to rest as I smashed into the wall, striking my head and dropping my light which went out at once.

There were rapid footsteps, heedless of the noise they caused, and Holmes was kneeling beside me on the dusty floor.

"Watson!" he set down his lantern and raised my head even as my vision swam dizzily and I tried to catch the breath that had been knocked from me. "Are you alright my dear fellow?"

"I'm fine." I grated, lifting a hand to my aching temple.

I tried to sit up and at the same time Holmes tried to restrain me.

"Lie still, Watson, are you badly hurt?"

"I said I'm fine," I said somewhat irritably, ashamed of my reaction. "It's just a bump Holmes, not a concussion. My leg hurt as well but the ache was only slight.

At last Holmes supported me instead of restraining me, and as I sat up.

As I did so, something wet and limp rolled down my chest.

I picked up the object without thinking and as I held it up to my face I was assailed by a familiar scent and there was an indignant squawk to my right.

On my other side, opposite Holmes, stood a bird, with an almost reptilian thin head and black and white plumage.

It squawked again and stretched its neck toward me.

I tossed the fish to it at once and it caught it in its beak. It was unable to swallow it due to the string that Howell had no doubt tied round its neck for that very purpose.

"The cormorant." I murmured and looked to Holmes expecting amusement or something like it.

I felt my heart sink when instead I saw something that had been absent from his face all night.

Fear.

"Watson…" he said softly. "We've disturbed him, Howell was fishing with the bird when we arrived, he must have seen us coming, he knows we're here."

This declaration sent a cold shiver down my spine.

"He's waiting for us?" I asked.

Holmes nodded, he lost no time in gathering up my lamp as well as his own and then extending a hand to help me to my feet.

"What should we do?" I asked.

My friend did not respond, he was gazing up the stairs.

"Holmes we cannot walk blindly into a trap." I whispered urgently, "Coming here with the element of surprise was one thing, but if he is ready for us."

Holmes hesitated a moment longer, gritting his teeth. At last he turned away and took hold of my arm to pull me away from the steps.

"Yes…of course you're right…you start back to the entrance, I'll follow."

"Holmes." I objected.

"If he thinks we're leaving Watson there is every chance he might come down to see us off." Holmes hissed. "And we know he isn't in front of us, you go ahead and I'll keep an eye out for him behind."

"Absolutely not!"

"Watson! This may be our only chance!" Holmes said, gripping my shoulder urgently. "Do you really think he'll stay here now that he knows we know? We have to get him tonight."

I knew the truth of my friend's words even as they left his lips, but I did not consider Howell to be a prize worthy of the risk.

"Holmes, this is insane!"

Holmes turned to face me, scowling. "He's killed three people already, Watson, willfully, without any excuse or purpose other than to silence them. He has no scruples to keep him from doing it again, we need to get him now!"

I could tell this was more than just fervor to finish a case. Holmes, however much he tried to hide it, did sympathize with many of our clients, and I knew that only Howell's capture would bring safety to the area and peace to the bereaved families.

Gritting my own teeth, for this decision went very much against the grain, I took my revolver from my pocket and seizing Holmes' thin wrist I pressed the weapon into his hand.

He objected, opening his mouth to protest but I cut him off with a scowl of my own.

"Holmes…the man is a murderer…if you have to shoot him then do so. No scruples. Do you hear me?"

Holmes studied my face.

"Holmes?!"

"Alright." He accepted the weapon, "Alright Watson, if you will be just as careful."

I nodded and he let out a shaky breath, handing me my light and relighting it with his own.

"Alright then…head for the door, Watson."

I gripped his arm once and taking a firm grip on my lantern and a firmer one on my resolve I began to make my way back down the shadowy corridor, leaving Holmes crouched in the entrance to one of the rooms, his eyes and my gun trained on the stairs.

As unnerving as the house had been on the way in, it was twice as frightening on the way out, and alone, with my friend crouching in what could be a very dangerous position.

My hand shook on the handle of the lantern, as I passed the empty locked rooms, the forgotten belongings, the stank kitchen. The silence was ominous, alive almost, as though the house and everything in it was holding its breath in anticipation.

As it was I was nearly to the door before that building pressure finally burst, I was passing the sitting room when quite without warning, the wind that had been blowing east to west suddenly changed direction, going directly south.

The unsecured windows smashed inwards, driving the shutters outward. I leapt and this time a shout of alarm did escape my lips as the silence was shattered by an echoing crash louder than any crack of thunder I had ever heard.

The wind drove into the dust that had been relatively undisturbed up to this point, dust that had collected for years on furniture and walls and floors.

It was forced up into the air, choking the atmosphere further, making me cough and gag, and at the same time the light from my lantern was blown out.

I dropped the light as the shutters clattered again, turning to face the gaping darkness inside the house, my heart beating at a fantastic rate in my chest, waiting for some ghostly figure or corpse to burst from the darkness.

But there was nothing…only the darkness and the howling wind that continued to disturb the dust into whirling clouds.

I stood shivering, waiting for my nerves to calm.

Surely Holmes had heard it? Had he guessed what it was?

In any case he did not come running, was he still crouched in waiting for Howell?

I could see only a few feet before me in the darkness though I could make out the shape of the door before me, and compared to the depths of the house it was very inviting.

I made my way towards it, edging along and bumping into discarded furniture.

I hesitated when at last my outstretched hand found the peeling surface of the wood and traveled down to the cold brass of the handle.

I had made it this far and there was no signal from Holmes…surely if Howell was coming down he would have done it by now…and I couldn't leave Holmes alone or he would most certainly go up after the man.

I could not leave, I would have to go back, and this time without a light.

The thought made my heart thud even harder and it took a moment of bracing resolve to turn back and face the darkness again.

I do not think I am an overly fearful man, but I would point out that few in my situation would have been able to face that dreadful empty space in total darkness and not be afraid.

I was shaking, and had to numbly force myself forward towards it with one hand on the wall, jumping every time the shutters clattered against the empty windows behind me and as the wind tugged at my coat and chilled my neck.

It was the thought of my fearless, foolhardy friend that kept me going, the idea of him impulsively making his way up the stairs in that darkness, with a madman crouched and waiting.

My journey was shorter than I would have supposed, the sounds from the sitting room fading quickly into the darkness and the stench from the kitchen growing stronger.

At last I came to the fork in the hall and turned down it waiting for my light-deprived eyes to catch the sight of Holmes' dimmed lantern any second.

I held my breath and quieted my steps, not wishing to give away his position if he was indeed there.

After what seemed to be a much longer period of time I reached the end of the hall and I stood numbly staring at the two shadowy paths before me, one leading to the lighthouse and the other to the upper floors.

Holmes was nowhere in sight, but there was no sign of a struggle, in fact the cormorant still huddled in the corner, rattling its wings every once in a while and clicking its beak, relatively peaceful.

A chill dread ran through me as the only explanation occurred to me, he had gone up the stairs after Howell as I had thought he would, he had not even waited for me to leave the house!

Somewhat indignant I turned to look at the cormorant as it shifted again, squawking…my eyes trailed over the door leading to the tower again…

I froze and my mind cleared as one fact made itself manifest in my mind.

The door was open.

Howell had not been hiding on the upper floors at all…he had been hiding in the tower, supposing it would be the last place either of us would look. And now Holmes was up on a wild goose chase on the upper floors and Howell was down here with me.

I plunged my hand into my coat pocket for my revolver and only remembered when my hands met plain cloth that it was upstairs with Holmes.

Holmes…Holmes was upstairs and suddenly that was exactly where I wanted to be.

With a speed born of gnawing terror I turned for the stairs gripped the railing and began to vault up them, disturbing the bird which squawked indignantly and fluttered a bit.

My breath was coming hard and fast as though I'd run a mile or two already and my heart was pounding in my chest again. I made the landing of the next floor and was greeted with seemed to be a fairly large drawing room, with another, wider hallway and more closed doors. There was another set of steps behind me leading to the uppermost floor…I was torn…had Holmes gone up them or was he still on this floor here? And how long before Howell figured out where I had gone and came up the stairs after both of us?

I stepped into the drawing room, trying to make sense of the huddling shadows and cloth-draped furniture.

I considered calling out, and turned to glance behind me as the familiar feeling of being watched penetrated between my shoulders.

Something, whether it was meant to be a curse or a call for help strangled in my throat and emerged as a wordless shout, for there, crouching, with his dim animal-like eyes peering at me over the banister, was Howell.

He had been on the way up the second set of steps, going after Holmes in all probability, and this was my only consolation for being such a farcical bungler, for in an instant he had vaulted up over the railing towards me.

I caught sight of his hand upraised and remembered that he had to have a knife for dealing with the fish and then I fell backward over a chair as he smashed into me.

I hit the ground hard, dashing my already bruised head on the hard wood floor.

So high was the count of adrenaline in my blood that I barely felt the sting of the knife as it grazed my shoulder. I caught hold of Howell's wrist and choked as his free hand caught hold of my throat, prying at it with hard, clutching fingers. His breath, reeking of fish, made me gag further.

I was twisting wildly beneath him with a strength born of desperation, faced with an opponent as single minded as this I felt an almost instinctive fear to get away and to run as far as I could.

I would have, had I been able to dislodge him, had it not been for those grasping, hard as steel fingers.

I struck his face, feeling some give as his nose cracked and he pulled back with a snarl. In response the blade of the knife came down again and this time caught jarringly on a bone in my shoulder.

I gave a choked cry and shoved with my legs, driving him back but also pulling the blade free in the process.

I tried to roll over onto my hands and knees but the pain in my shoulder was sharp now, driving me into the floor, twisting and gasping.

The moment of hesitation was enough, in an instant he was upon me, this time with a sharp kick to the head and to press the blade of the knife against my exposed throat and twist my arm behind me.

Nausea roiled in my stomach from the blow and the shock of the pain I tried to fight him and froze when the weapon cut into the thin layer of skin in front of my throat.

His foul breath hissed in my ear as I shuddered and trembled.

"I wouldn't move if I was you Doctor." He hissed, "Yew might live a bit longer if you don't…or if you want to you can end it right now, with one little nick here in your throat."

He was a cold-blooded killer, just as Holmes had said, without scruple. He killed for the pleasure of it more than the convenience.

"There's nowhere for you to go." I retorted, "Holmes-" More pressure and a trickle of blood on my chill skin cut short my words.

Howell laughed.

"You think for a minute that I care about you or your friend?" he asked, "You think the law matters to me Doctor?"

I shuddered. "You're insane, Howell."

I could almost see the sliding smirk on his face, the one I had despised before I knew he was a murderer.

"You're names don't bother me either Doctor, fact is one inch and I could cut you off like that…then where would your Mr. Holmes be eh? How do you think that would affect him?"

I knew how my death would affect Holmes, and such an incredibly stupid death as well, serving no end.

"You'll hang for what you've done Howell, Holmes has all the evidence he needs."

Howell did not seem much put out by the idea.

"Well then." He whispered, his hand quivering on the blade of the knife as it sank deeper into my throat. "I guess I'd better have my fun now."

"Let him go, Howell."

The voice, quiet and free of any emotion at all rang with surprising clarity in the room. I shifted my gaze sideways to see a patch of light that announced the presence of my friend. I dared not move, even to turn my head, I was still dizzy from the blows, and warm blood was streaming from the wound in my shoulder.

Howell did though, shifting with his knee in the small of my back to sneer at my friend.

"Ah, there you are Mr. Holmes, I thought you were upstairs, was comin' to pay you a visit myself before the Doctor dropped in on me."

Holmes drew closer, his footsteps soft.

"Let him go." He repeated.

I was acutely aware of every sensation in my body, as though the influx of adrenaline had heightened all my senses, my heart pounding so hard in my chest it seemed about to crawl up my throat, my own breaths rasping in my ears deafening me, and the horrible stinging pain in my shoulder.

"Can you give me a reason? Mr. Holmes?" Howell asked with an absurd casualness that was utterly wrong in the current situation.

Holmes was silent for a moment, and then I heard him bend to set the lantern down on the floor.

"If you kill him you will not leave this house alive."

I shuddered at the icy rage in his voice, not just rage but the same cold indifference with which he stated the facts of a case. What my friend said was absolute truth and I had no trouble believing it. unfortunately that eventuality depended on my own departure.

I took a breath.

"Holm-"

My words turned into a quavering cry of terror as the knife suddenly slashed across my skin, creating a cut that no matter how shallow still made me think for a terrified moment that he had indeed cut my throat.

Holmes started forward only to freeze when he realized I was not in danger and the knife was still at my throat. His own breaths were audible, shaking. The sensation had left me shuddering worse than before.

Holmes took a bracing breath. "What do you want?" he asked, his voice far less steady then before…in fact it sounded though he might be sick.

Howell laughed, "Its' all just twaddle isn't it? Your high morals and your principles, the moment you're facin' death like everyone else you're willing to bargain."

Holmes bent again, and there was a dull thud as he set my revolver on the floor.

"You can go, if you want," he said, "I won't stop you, I won't even follow you. Meet up with Green, you have enough money to leave the country, you could go to South America…"

"Well isn't that a grand idea? And what's stopping me from doing that after I kill the Doctor?"

"If you kill Watson I shall kill you." He said. "Put down the knife right now and I will not interfere."

In the clarity of the moment I suddenly understood why Holmes had told me to leave the house at all, not to fool Howell, such a shoddy deception would never have lured him out. He wanted me safe before he went after the man, perfectly willing to risk his own life in the endeavor but not mine.

"What makes you think I want to go to South America at all?" Howell asked, "How do you know killing him and watching your face as I do it won't give me more pleasure?"

Holmes took another step closer.

"Because it would be a waste, you have all that money Howell, and Green is well out of reach of the police, if you leave tonight you could both be on a boat by morning."

"How do I know good ol Netley is waiting just outside Mr. Holmes? Waiting to snatch me up the moment I accept your generous offer?"

"Do you think the authorities would let us come in here alone?" Holmes replied in his most reasonable tone. "If it's a hostage you need I'll go with you, I'll see you safely on a boat myself…just let him go."

Howell pretended to consider for a moment, tapping the edge of the knife against my throat.

"How can I trust you Mr. Holmes, to do what I say once I let him go?"

Holmes took a shaky breath. "I give you my-"

Again the knife tightened, making me stiffen. The smell and feel of my own warm blood was making me physically ill.

"None of that claptrap if you please Mr. Holmes…if you can't give me a real guarantee then I can't see why I should accept your offer. The way I see it we're both rigged."

Sherlock Holmes took another step and then said something that I have never heard from his lips before or since, something that truly rattled me.

"Please…Mr. Howell…"

Howell laughed, and half turned, hearing exactly what he wanted to hear…and that was the same instant I caught a snatch of movement from Holmes.

All at once a great ruckus of flapping and squawking exploded on the stairwell. The commotion was so great that Howell, and even I, looked on impulse.

Holmes moved like a cat darting forward and catching hold of Howell's arm, pulling the knife from my throat and hauling him off my back.

His hand kept hold of my arm and I was dragged with them, biting back a cry of pain as the wounds in my shoulder strained further.

I saw Holmes' fist come down and the hand released me. I raised my head to watch in morbid fascination as Holmes, now on top of Howell as he had been on me, began to pound his fist into the writhing individual almost methodically.

And then he was hauling the man to his feet and throwing him against the window which splintered under the impact.

Holmes caught hold of him again, his arms trembling with cold calculated fury as he drove a fist into the murderers jaw.

At last Howell stumbled backward and fell over a chair and was still

My friend stood for a moment, trembling, and then automatically turned to me, crossing the space in a moment, kneeling beside me where I lay still stunned by his actions.

"Oh God…Watson." he breathed fervently, rolling me over onto my good shoulder, raising my head on his arm and examining the shallow cuts on my neck for himself.

His hand strayed, still shaking to the wound on my shoulder, came away thick with blood.

I was still gasping for breath, my heart still pounding in my chest.

"I'm alright, Holmes." I muttered, disbelievingly. Was I really still breathing…still alive? "The cormorant…"

Holmes took a shaky breath.

"I tossed the fish Watson. It dove for it…I didn't know what else to do...he…he was going to kill you."

I glanced at the huddled man who seemed far from threatening in his present condition.

"You didn't kill him?" I asked, unnerved that I could even consider it a possibility.

Holmes shook his head. "No, Watson…I didn't kill him." my friend was ripping up my sleeve examining the wounds.

"He used that filthy knife of his," he said softly. "We need to clean them…you're medical kit."

I shook my head. "I didn't bring it, Holmes…remember?"

He swore softly, took out both our handkerchiefs and pressed them against my shoulder.

"Hold that." He ordered, rising to his feet again and pulling a pair of derbies from his pocket. He crossed to Howell, checked his vitals for a moment and then pulled his arms behind him, securing them around the leg of a heavy couch with a loud click.

He returned to me a moment later, transferring one of the handkerchiefs to my neck to wipe away the blood and examine the full extent of the damage.

"He's not dead." He reaffirmed, as though he had been unsure before. I almost laughed.

"We need to get you out here, Watson…do you think you can walk?"

I shuddered and levered myself upward with my good arm. "If it means leaving this hellish place…"

This drew a shaky smile from him, and after making certain of the makeshift compress he slipped his arm beneath my shoulders and slowly helped me to my feet.

Gathering up the lantern and the pistol we at last made it to the stairs and I considered them doubtfully.

"Can you manage them, Watson?"

I nodded, I really would do anything if it meant leaving here.

We managed them somehow, though it involved several stumbles and a near miss or two, and I'm certain I left a deal of blood on the steps, there would most likely be an new ghost story to add to the collection.

With Holmes' steady arm around me and the light from the lantern the quality of the house that had seemed so haunting before faded slightly, as though shrinking back in the light of reason and the warmth of a good friend.

We made our way out of the house without incident and down the path to the trap.

I was stumbling with fatigue by this time and shivering with shock and bloodloss, Holmes lost no time in helping me to the seat and covering me with the blankets we had brought.

He did not climb in himself but leaving me the lantern turned back towards the house.

"Holmes!" I called urgently, if somewhat feebly after him, being out here in the dark was not so disturbing as being in the house but it was not for myself that I was so anxious. Holmes had been alone before and if it were not for my blundering in he would have likely been badly hurt if not killed.

He turned and gave me a reassuring smile that was so unusually warm I felt all fear suddenly leave my heart.

"Just a moment, Watson." said he, and trotted back into the great dilapidated structure.

It was a little more than a moment, but in a short time he emerged with something tucked under his arm.

I watched, in amazement and some amusement as he bent his head over the struggling cormorant, fiddled with the string on its neck and obviously removed it, for the bird suddenly gave a delighted squawk, and breaking free of my friend's hold, dove off towards the waves and the fish that awaited it.

Holmes returned to the trap and settled inside it without a word.

He whipped up the horse and I felt as though a great weight, like a leaden blanket, fell from my shoulders as we left the lighthouse behind us.

Too tired to keep my head up any longer, and trying to ignore the sharp pains from my shoulder at every bump in the road, I settled back against the seat and my friend's shoulder, giving at last into the pull of blissful unconsciousness.

* * *

When next I opened my eyes it was to find myself in a reassuringly pleasant room, with a fire burning merrily against the cold, grey weather outside, and pleasantly heavy covers pulled up to my chin.

An inspection of my shoulder and neck confirmed that my wounds had been attended to and neatly bandaged. I blinked blearily about the room trying to recollect what had happened before the blank, peaceful hours of sleep.

"If you're thinking of breakfast it will be here in fifteen minutes."

I looked across to the armchair which stood beside my bed.

Holmes sat there, his pipe in his hand and the morning's paper spread around his feet. He had just finished the agony columns it seemed for he tossed that section down to join the rest and sat back with a sigh, propping his slipper clad feet upon my covers.

I smiled in relief, though I could not quite remember why I should have cause to be relieved at his presence. There was something else as well…something that niggled at the back of my mind.

He smiled back, either amused by my puzzlement or just in a good mood himself…he was rubbing the knuckles of his left hand…they looked to be a bit swollen.

"Great Scot!" I tried to sit up as the events of the previous night came flooding back, Holmes moved at once to restrain me with a gentle hand on my good shoulder.

"Easy Watson…if its' Howell you're thinking of you needn't bother, Netley took two stout men this morning and picked him up, it seems the young inspector's courage is more readily available with the sun."

"And you, Holmes….are you alright? He could have killed you…he would have killed you…what the devil did you mean sending me out on my own while you went after him!?"

My voice rose in outrage with every word.

Holmes did not appear to be affected in the slightest.

"Calm yourself my dear fellow."

I gave in to his tugging and laid back…but only because my head was swimming again.

"It was a deucedly stupid thing to do." I muttered weakly.

"So was your coming gungho up the steps…when I saw…" his voice, which up until that point had been as steady as a rock and as smooth as ever suddenly broke without warning.

He removed his pipe, breathed in through his nose and continued at a slower pace.

"I thought he'd killed you, Watson, when I saw him bending over you…I thought he was going to kill you before my eyes and I would have been helpless to prevent it."

He looked away, concentrating on his pipe.

"I never want to see anything remotely like that again."

A disquieted silence settled between us permeated by the gentle methodic tapping of the drizzle outside. I watched his careful inattention for a moment, and then I broke it.

"Do you think it would have been any easier on me, Holmes?"

Holmes sighed through his nose, purposely avoiding the question we both knew the answer too.

Another moment of silence and then.

"Well…we shall just have to avoid lighthouses in the future…eh?"

I sighed but nodded, letting the issue lie.

"I think I can happily agree to that, Holmes." I sat up a little further, and Holmes obliged by arranging the pillows behind me, still avoiding eye-contact after his emotional outburst.

"You mentioned breakfast?"

He met my gaze at last.

"Mmm…coffee, eggs, toast, sausages…"

"Not kippers I hope."

He shuddered, "No…no, nothing remotely…" he railed off, making a face, "anyhow." He rubbed his hands together, "First breakfast, and then we shall meet with our client if you are feeling up to it. No doubt his lordship will be eager to learn about Green's whereabouts so he can return to his beloved politics."

I nodded as my frriend fell back into the familiar pattern of deduction and investigation…there needed to be something said however…something that acknowledged the strange and terrifying encounter last night, it would be too much of a tripline if it was left buried without some sort of finality.

Holmes had risen to answer the knock on the door when I found the words that, even if they were conventional were nonetheless appropriate.

"Thank you, Holmes"

He turned, studied me for a moment, and finally smiled.

"Of course…my dear Watson."

* * *

**_One more note, I haven't abadoned Centre of the Web, thats coming up soon, many thanks to you wonderful reviewers, espcially Aragonite and Pebble66._**


End file.
